


sleep with a gun beside you in bed

by borys



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: F/M, M/M, Non-binary Trevor, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 11:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borys/pseuds/borys
Summary: you should've been a motheryou should've been a wifeyou should've been gone from here years agoyou should be living a different life





	sleep with a gun beside you in bed

**Author's Note:**

> as a trans person i feel like ive never read a trans trevor fic written by a trans person. so i wrote one. i wrote trevor using they/them pronouns. sorry if its confusing, it just felt right.

They’re 8 and wearing one of their foster mother's dresses, trying to shove their feet into heels. 

“You’re a fag, aren't you? I’m telling Stacey you wanna be a girl.” The loud voice interrupts their blissful silence, alone in their foster parents room. 

They look up, and sees their foster brothers mean figure in the doorway. His name is Alex, he is 13, and he didn’t like them from the moment they dragged their suitcase into his room. The feeling is mutual.

They don’t respond. This was from the greater portion of their young life where they rarely spoke more than five words in a week. The child psychologists diagnosed them with selective mutism. It faded in time. 

He runs downstairs, surely to fulfill his promise, and before they know it, their foster mother replaces him in the doorway, lit ominously by the light from the hallway. 

“Trevor?” Her tone wasn’t judgemental, a fact they shy away from. This must be a trap. 

They started shamefully shedding their dress. Why did Alex have to ruin everything? Why did everyone have to ruin everything? Why are they stuck with nothing?

“No, sweetheart, you don’t have to do that.” Stacey said, walking over and kneeling in front of them. She was nice, nicer than anyone Trevor had ever met. This made her untrustworthy. 

They still pause, hands still on the straps, skinny shoulders raised. 

“Do you like it? The dress?” 

Trevor nods slowly, minutely. They were waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Stacey’s hand to raise against them. It always happened.

“You can keep it, if you’d like. Or I can get you more.” 

Trevor’s eyes flicker over Stacey’s shoulder, to the doorway. 

Stacey seems to be able to read their mind. “Don’t be afraid of Alex. I’ll talk to him.”

They stay silent, hands clinging to the fabric against their shoulders. 

“Hey, we can go saturday, if you want? We’ll go to goodwill, get you a really pretty one. Whatever color you want.” 

Beside themself, Trevor smiles. They want an orange one, or maybe red. It could be in the ugliest color in the world and they’d still love it. 

That was thursday. The next day, their mother arrived at their door, Ryan in tow, and told her she had gotten custody back of both of them. They never got the dress. 

—

They’re sixteen and going down on a guy behind their school, next to the dumpsters.

“God, you’re so good at this,” The boy above them pants, “Just like a fucking girl.” He watches them behind skater boy fringe and a beanie pulled over his eyebrows. Their face flushes, more than it was already. Something hot, but something unlike arousal, flips over in them. 

They thank him for this gesture, one they didn’t know they wanted until they received it, by swallowing when he came in their mouth. 

When they were done, they pull back on the heels of their feet and wipes the drool that drips down their chin. He wipes some of the spit and jizz off of his dick with the sleeve of his hoodie and tucks it back in his pants carefully. They’re not particularly turned on, not more than the baseline level of any teenager. 

“So,” He says, breaking the silence, “You going to the basketball game tomorrow?” 

The kid (whose name they barely remembered, it was Jacob) had a heavy canadian accent that lilted when he said tomorrow, almost like their did. They scowl up at him. “Do I fucking look like I’m going to the basketball game tomorrow?” 

He shrugs dumbly. “I dunno. I gotta get to class, lunch was over ten minutes ago. You comin’?” 

They shake their head and fishes the pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of their jeans, shaking them at him. “Nicotine calls.”

“Heh, alright. Seeya later, Trevor.” 

They watch him go as they opens the pack and takes out a cigarette, putting it to their lips and lighting it. They aren’t one for self reflection, so they don’t ask herself why the rush to their head from being likened to a girl still faintly remained. They don’t ask themself why their typical emptiness rattles around in them when he calls their name.

They just finish their cigarette in record time and mindlessly pulls out another one. They’re not particularly worried about truancy. The Centre for Child Protection has basically given up on them at this point, and the teachers seemed happier when they were out of class than when they were in it. 

They probably would have forfeited school altogether, but their stepdad was home and they preferred not getting their face melded with the heel of his boot when at all possible. 

Plus, their mom said that if she saw them at home when they were supposed to be at school, she’ll make them sleep under the porch for a week. This was not a threat to be taken lightly. 

—

They’re 24 and watching Amanda put on makeup from across the hotel room as she’s sat on the bed, holding a hand mirror. 

They’re also smoking a blunt, occasionally passed to Amanda when she gestures for it. Michael is at the store, getting cigarettes, and when he gets back, he’s taking Amanda back to her parents house. 

She swipes lipstick, red, across her lips and turns to Trevor. “How’s it look?” 

She looks hot, eviably. They have never watched a girl put on makeup before, just knew they receded into bathrooms for minutes at a time and came out with red lips and black-lined eyes. It was kind of like magic. They suddenly hungered for it, but tried to shove it down with all the other feelings they were uncomfortable with.

“Fine.” They gruffly responded, taking a hit to avoid having to say anything further. 

“Only fine? Alright.” She smiled bemusedly at them, turning back and putting all her makeup in her bag. “Has anyone ever put makeup on you, Trev?” 

This seemed like a question she should have been able to answer herself, but she was probably just trying to make awkward conversation with her fiance’s best friend. She knew Trevor didn’t like her, and was probably trying to gain favor before the wedding next month. 

“Nope.” 

She turned again, her eyebrows raised mischievously. “You want me to? You’re gonna give Michael a heart attack.” 

Trevor allowed themself to sink into the fantasy, if only for a moment. Red lips, long eyelashes. Lifelong dreams of skirts and swishing fabrics bubbled to the surface of her mind. Flat chests and lace, hairy legs and fishnets. 

“Or not. Jesus.”

They realized they had, in their fantasy, had just been silently glaring at Amanda. They hadn’t meant to, it was kind of their natural state, but whatever. It wasn’t like they were going to accept. 

—

They’re 30 and they’re letting Michael and Brad take turns fucking them. 

They rarely give Brad the pleasure, but they were feeling generous, and it was a quick way to shut him up for a couple hours. He’s not bad, either. Not the best. But not bad. 

He had their hips in his hands, fucking them from behind. All of them have piled into Lester’s guest bedroom, and Trevor has Michaels fingers pressed into their mouth to keep from waking up the aforementioned homeowner. 

They aren’t really thinking about Brad. They’re thinking about Michael, who’s lovingly drilling his fingers down their throat like it’s his dick, who has his other hand clasped around their chin. 

They can tell Michael isn’t thinking about Brad either, by what he’s whispering at them. 

“You look great, baby,” he says in their ear, too quiet to be heard by Brad. “Pretty like a girl, huh?”

The attention goes to their head immediately, before rushing to their dick. Most validation was the same to them, but something about stuff like that made them feel soft and warm. It was corny, something they’d never say out loud. 

Brad could be tazing their balls for all they gave a shit, all that mattered to them was the man in front of them and what he was saying to them. They smile around his fingers, batting their eyelashes. 

“You guys dirty talking without me?” Brad asks, pausing as he pulled out.

“Yeah, and if you don’t shut your damn mouth we’ll be fucking without you too.” Michael snaps. This quiets Brad and he goes back to steadily fucking them. 

Michael looks at them like he knows something, like he figured out something a long time ago they hasn’t. He pushes his fingers further back down their throat. 

—

They’re 39 and Michael is dead and they’re huffing gas with a girl they went to high school with. 

When they were in high school, she was a boy, but she’s got tits and everything now. It’s interesting. She’s interesting. Trevor really wants to fuck her. Her name is Samantha.

They met at a gay bar in the province they went to high school in. They didn’t even know it was a gay club until they got in and saw a drag show, which they watched with mild interest before they ran into her old friend.

They weren’t quite sure they were friends. Trevor really didn’t have a lot of friends. They miss Michael burningly. 

So now they’re sitting in Samantha’s apartment, passing a canister of gas and a rag back and forth. It numbs the pressing pain of loss that has been sitting on their chest for about a year now. It also makes them feel like shit.

While they cough, Samantha looks at them sideways and asks, “You found anyone special yet, Trevor?” 

They think of Michael again. Misses him so bad it almost makes them cough harder. “Yup.”

“That’s good. Everybody needs somebody. What’s her name?” 

The piercing through the middle of Samantha’s top lip glints as she talks. The pain rises again. They shouldn’t have come here. 

“It that bad, huh? Brutal.” She must have noticed the look on Trevor’s face. “Love sucks, man. But I’m glad you had it for a while, at least. Hope she was worth it.” 

They nod and puts the rag back to their nose. 

“To be honest, I kind of always thought you were like me when we were in high school. Not exactly, but something similar.” 

With these words in Trevor’s mind, they deeply inhale, the scent of gas flooding their nose. They could practically taste it, putrid. 

The next thing they remember is five months later, waking up in the arms of a stone cold corpse. It’s not Samantha, it’s a man, and they’re both wearing panties with little bows on the hips. The corpse has vomit dripping out of his mouth. Overdose. 

Trevor peels themself away from the body and burns it in a dumpster. They keep the panties. They move on. 

—

They’re 46 and is letting some speed kick in when they get the age-old ache again. 

It’s not unfamiliar, it’s even welcome. It seems to amplify when they’re using drugs. The feeling pools in their mouth, like they could spit it out if they waited. They do wait, for a second, but knows what they have to do eventually. 

They stand up from the cracked cotton of their couch and walks towards their closet with a new sense of purpose. They love this about meth, it gave them the direction they’ve gained and lost so many times. 

Under sloppily folded jeans and hastily thrown shirts, lies a dress. They know where to find it. They stole it from Binco a couple months ago, and it's always there waiting for them when they’re like this. 

They step out of their jeans, their shirt, their underwear, and slips on the dress. It’s a little bit snug on them, with thin straps and lace lining where breasts should be. It’s black, and rides up on their tall form to fall just below their ass. 

They’d probably kill Wade if he wandered in looking for a hit or something to do. Or better, make him wear the dress and walk to the gas station, let him get kidnapped and tied to the back of some rednecks dirt bike. Ron’s seen this a couple times, doesn’t seem to mind, never mentions it, but Wade asks too many questions. 

They don’t really have any answers, all they know is that it manages to feel so new each time, like they’re eight in their foster mom’s closet. It’s like stepping into a new skin, something a little more comfortable. A middle ground. 

They admires themself in the mirror.

That’s you, they think, that’s you.


End file.
